Letters Home
by ParlorGamesToMe
Summary: "Sometimes, I think of you, Thor. More than sometimes, but I can scarcely admit it to myself, much less to you." In his mind, Loki speaks to Thor, addressing all his grievances and pointing out all the forks in the road that he took to lead him away from Asgard- and Thor.
1. Drafts

Sometimes, I think of you, Thor. More than sometimes, but I can scarcely admit it to myself, much less to you. As The Other speaks to me, voice rumbling and dark, I wonder how to explain it all. To you, to me, to Odin, to mother, to all of them, but the way evades me. Then again, it always did. The Other natters on, but I scarcely register his threats. They sail through my ears like empty air.

In my mind, I find myself composing letters home. Dozens and dozens of drafts for father, and thousands more for you. I can't find any way to write one for mother; she is more victim than any of you. I owe her far more than I wish to dwell on. Everyone else, well, I owe them no explanation. They marked me as a disgrace from the start. Must I repeat lessons learned?

Each and every letter, I toss it away, too frightened to even put a pen to paper. Perhaps it's better that way. No need to let you into the inner machinations of a deranged mind. In the sanctity of my head, I sound saner, having had more time to compose myself. Time and practice. I fell for a long while.

My words do not always emerge in madman's jumble; rather, they arrange themselves into a peculiar order, one I can comprehend. Yet, when I speak to you, when I even imagine speaking to you, they contort themselves into a riotous display.

But Thor, dear brother- why do I even call you brother, you're not my brother, no, not anything to me. Thor, I am sor-

No, even that's a falsehood. Can I not be honest, even in my own head?

I shouldn't lie to you in the privacy of my disjointed mind.

You know, as I fell, I didn't always see the abyss around me, not really. Instead, I viewed flashes- memories, the improbable forks in the road that led me from you. Mostly, though, I recall the tumult.

You have to understand, the fault lies with no single person, no matter how much I long for it to rest on anyone's shoulders but mine. Not that, of course, I will speak this aloud. No, this is just a letter with no destination. In this, I will allow myself to candid.

I yearn to detest you without contention.

I hate you with every cell inside, but my flesh retains memories. Retains them, keeps them inside, unable- or unwilling- to relinquish them. I cannot stop myself from reviewing our stories. We share the same past, however riddled with demons it is.

Maybe I was the only demon.

No, Loki, do not wax poetic. This monologue should serve a purpose, unlike the multitudes before it. Back to you, yes, back to you once more.

Do you know why I hate you above all?

Do you?

Do you really?

I'm sure it has kept you up many a night. Your muscles tighten, tensed, at the mere thought of me. Your breath catches in your wide chest. Your eyes dart from side to side. You are not nearly as prodigious a liar as I. The one thing I excelled in and look what it brought with it. The price has hardly been paid. More shall follow us, ravenous for their fees; that much I can sincerely promise you. I have cast something veiled upon us.

Loki, you must concentrate. Get back in line.

Returning to you, yes. I am returning.

The questions remain: do you know? Do you search for me? Do you even know that I live? I wonder, did you mourn for me? Or do you picture me in Valhalla?

You always did grant yourself the erroneous courtesy that I have a soul.

You loved me, didn't you? Put me up high when no one else did. And you knocked down that pedestal with your own clumsy hammer. Let it topple and splinter. You loved me best, I know you did. And then, you didn't.

They never even started, my dearest detractors, so I can't hold it against them forever. It is more honest of them, less grievous, to remain constant and stalwart in their derision. But you, you stopped, Thor. You **stopped.**

As The Other speaks to me, I hardly listen, only dictating this useless mass of words to someone who will never hear them. I consider warning you. Consider it briefly, mind you. Don't believe I am softening; no, I'd rather enjoy having you alive for my victory. Crown me now and save the trouble. Eternity is coming.

And I am gone. The constant shifting weakens my body, paints dark circles beneath my eyes, and suctions away the clarity of it all. Shivers wrack my flimsy bones.

I see you, again, Thor. I see us, together, the day we first fought. Our first kill. Do you remember, that fall day when Odin took us to the Bifrost and had us transported somewhere else? He yelled something about not watching, about making sure we'd be all by ourselves to prove our worth. I never did prove my worth to him. Never earned my keep, never played out the grand purpose he had designed for me. No, I played an alternate role. Mother stood near him, whispering something indistinguishable into Heimdall's ear. And then, abruptly, we were one with pigments, a rush of color moving elsewhere.

Do you recall, brother?


	2. Strange

It's strange, when he kills for the first time, Loki expects to feel something. Expects to shudder, to wince, to shatter somewhere essential. Loki expects to be weak. But his knife goes in, enters the enemy's body. The man's muscles clench around the blade, fighting it, and Loki can feel them resist as he twists the knife further. The warrior gurgles, keeping himself from crying out. Blood bubbles from his mouth, and Loki is surprised to find himself unfazed. He anticipated tremors, earthquakes, collapses- he anticipated no joy in the kill. Joy? Is that the feeling?

His knives soar through the air, precise, not a single one missing the mark. Their targets hit the dusty earth with a thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Loki doesn't waver.

Regret should be around the corner. Remorse has not arrived- late, maybe. Loki feels none of them. It is then when he first begins to chill.

Jubilance, happiness, joy, these are the emotions that creep in. Sneaky and silent, they walk on padded feet. Unnoticed, but they have arrived.

Loki smiles. His thin lips stretch, extending almost far too wide, barely fitting in his narrow face. The enemies hit the ground, suffering. He likes to watch them suffer, though Loki knows already never to admit it.

"We are winning, brother!" cries Loki joyfully. His magic, still rudimentary, plays no role. Not yet, he decides. Besides, why should it emerge when his knives work so well? No magic here. Not yet. Not until Odin can view firsthand, and see the advances he has yet to make. Loki, in the midst of battle, pictures Odin holding his hand high, presenting his glorious son to the world. His son, his wonderful son, the mighty warrior, pride of Asgard, strong and wily, his adored son. Thor, he decides, can come too. Thor may be honored as well, though none so much as Loki. The idea of being beloved resonates strongly with him, a note that echoes, covering the screeches of his victims.

Thor roars something indistinguishable back. He throws a warrior to the ground and stabs a sword deep within the warrior's body, past the chinks in paltry armor. Thor winces as though he has been pierced as well. Wind whistles by, stirring up dirt.

Pity there is no one to see.

Thor stumbles as he moves. Loki can't help but notice. Thor hesitates to kill- it is his first time, feeling the blood of something other than an animal drip down his skin, to feel skin and muscles rebel against the blade, to tear, to maim, to see something go out in the fallen's faces.

It is because of this that they pin Thor against a boulder. They converge in on this weakness, and prepare to kill. Loki, absorbed by the power he has never before felt, almost misses Thor's desperate plea of, "Brother!"

The word exits his lips, broken, cracking, frenzied, so much weight on two syllables. Perhaps Loki ascribes more depth to it than necessary; perhaps he gets it right. It serves no purpose to ascertain. His clever knives strike, ridding the area of the warriors around him. He heads away from Thor. Runs. Ducks behind a boulder.

"Brother!" screams Thor. "Brother! Loki!" His fists pound against the nearest fighter, knocking him to the ground. There are many more to go, all of them quite happy to avenge their comrades. Thor's sword hangs loose at his side.

Loki flickers, in and out of reality. Suddenly, there are more of him, Not-Lokis, clones of some sort. They screech out- a battle cry that Loki may have practiced in front of his mirror at night many, many times. From such a skeletal thing, the noises startle the warriors. Not-Lokis cry out, guttural and inharmonious, a barbaric scream. The Not-Lokis thrust out knives, more than ready to throw, an army hungry for blood.

**They** do not mind killing.

The figments, Not-Lokis, draw in closer, rapacious for the kill. The warriors rush away from Thor, towards the mindless army, unsure of what they face. The Not-Lokis grin in unison, each of them alarmingly crocodile-like. A knife flies through the air, striking the burliest warrior in the throat. Puzzled and frightened, his comrades look around. It appeared from nowhere, the blade that causes blood to bubble out of the dying man's mouth. Certainly not from any of the Not-Lokis, who circle around the warriors, playing with their prey. They laugh. The sound reaches Loki, turning around behind the boulder where he lurks. He seizes his chance as the warriors stare in terror, caught, unmoving, pinned down by figments.

One knife, then the other, and another, until they tint the air with crimson. Men fall, blood mingling with dirt. Thor breaks free from his stupor and feebly slashes back. Barely enough to kill, and certainly not with the fervor Loki channels.

The last warrior drops, clutching his throat. He struggles to speak. Loki silences him with another dagger. Something wet trickles down Thor's face. Thor can't see it. Can't see anything but the bodies, empty shells, he emptied those shells himself.

"We've won!" Loki crows. He hurries to Thor, grin vivid.

Thor heaves. His preparatory breakfast ("The meal of a warrior." His mother had said proudly, beaming at him and Loki from across the table. "It will bring you more than luck. I know you will both fight well, my sons.") litters the ground, imparting the air with a ripe stench. Thor stands up, then bends over and heaves once more.

"Thor!" cries Loki, bridging the distance between them. He doesn't cringe at the stink. His hand rests lightly on Thor's shoulder. It's a stretch- Frigga promised Loki that he will grow soon- but he meets it nonetheless.

"I killed them." Is all Thor will say. His eyes water. Then, those same three words come out, again and again, a cycle of useless remorse. Loki does not mention his newfound pleasures. Instead, he settles on the ground, legs crossed. He grimaces as his aching body contorts.

"Sit down, Thor." Loki whispers tenderly. "Sit next to me."

Thor obeys, and finds himself astonished to realize out that he is sobbing. Loki takes Thor's head into his lap. He brushes aside bloodied strands of golden hair, hued so differently from that morning.

"I killed them." Thor weeps, the same two words emerging again. Loki strokes his hair, lets Thor blubber. His hands soothe Thor, grounding him into reality, keeping him from drifting somewhere painful off of the horizon. Thor bawls like a child, shaking within Loki's capable arms. Loki just holds his brother and lets him sob, touching him gently, sweetly, a far cry from the thing that had inhabited Loki's body before.

"You are a warrior." Loki pacifies. "A brave, strong, good warrior. You can do this. You have kept Asgard safe. You have kept our family, our friends, our people safe. You have valiantly proved yourself a warrior. It is a noble duty. It had to be done, Thor."

"It shouldn't have to be done." Thor protests. His giant hand encircles Loki's knobby wrist, pulling his brother into the nearly impalpable space between them.

"Someone must do it." Loki murmurs eventually. He searches for words to say and comes up unsure.

"Then let someone **else**." Thor sighs.

"You will be king one day." Loki speaks slowly. The fact has not begun to chip away at him. "And a good king must know how to take care of his people, how to put them first, like father. It may hurt you, it may pain you, but in the end, you have to do things that no one else is willing to in order to protect those you love. You were entrusted with this honor, and I can think of no one more deserving."

Loki does not say "I would be an awful king."

"I see them." Thor confesses. The ghosts crawl into his ears, through his mouth, making home in his body. Loki doesn't know how to exorcise them.

"Of course you do." Loki says lightly. "We haven't left yet." The somber mood does not abate as Loki hoped.

"It's not a joke, brother." Thor reprimands through his tears.

"You're right." Loki agrees. "Poor taste on my part. Forgive me. Please don't be angry. Please. I'm sorry, brother." He strokes Thor's hair. His pleas saturate the air with desperation that Loki has not yet learned to guise in hate. All lessons will come in time.

"I could never be mad at you." Mutters Thor. His tears, at least, have slowed. His mouth tastes like salt. "You are loyal, strong, and steadfast, more so than I. You saved me."

"And don't you make me do it again." Loki jokes. Tears prick his vision, and he hopes not to cry in front of his big brother. He wishes to make Thor proud. "I don't want you to go around trying to save me and repay this debt."

"I will always try and save you, brother." Thor murmurs. His head wrenches up to look at Loki, eyes imbued with an urgent fervor.

"Let's go home." Is all Loki can utter.


	3. Faltering

At her first sight of her injured sons, Frigga rushes up, enveloping them in a hug. She kisses their bruised faces.

"Oh, you're hurt!" she cries out, caring less about the battle and the state of their worth than their copious wounds.

"Where is father?" inquires Loki. Animated and ready to tell him of their bravery, Loki glows. His green eyes sparkle, though Frigga can hardly see the sheen when confronted with his bloody features.

"He'll greet you at the celebratory feast." Frigga informs him.

"Celebratory feast? But he has not heard of the result of our battle." Loki points out, somewhat bewildered.

"I think he knew all along what would happen." Placates Frigga. "Now, come with me, my dear sons. You're wounded. I will use my magic to tend to you." Her hands smooth over Loki's face first. Her fingertips brush the cut above his eyebrows. When they leave, it has been mended. The area stings. A cool, silvery light smokes from where the injury was, and then goes out.

Frigga's tentative magic works its power on Loki. Though she is not nearly as capable as her son, her love for Loki gives her strength.

At last, she is finished. Thor's eyes flit across Loki's healed body approvingly. At last, Loki's pain has ebbed away. He kisses Frigga, pressing a thank you against her cheek. Her hand touches his face affectionately.

"Thor, come closer, darling. It's your turn." Frigga murmurs, glancing away from her son's injuries. It wounds her to look upon the evidence of his pain. Thor doesn't move. Slothfully, he sits in place, staring at her with blank blue eyes.

"I- I think I will let them heal on their own, mother." Thor says eventually. His words exit in a haphazard fashion, hesitant and wary."The mark of warrior and all. It will please father." Only Loki catches the unspoken sentence Thor locks up: 'I deserve it.'

Loki holds back a sigh; in time, Thor's innocence, his sense of nobility will falter. Loki knows that much. All men will tumble into the dirt eventually. The only variable is when.

Still, he does not enjoy the idea of his brother's suffering.

"Thor…" Frigga whispers. Her hand rests on Thor's face, brushing across the cuts. They do not heal. Her fingertips smoke for a brief instance, but they do not mend his injuries.

"Please, mother." Thor murmurs back. Is it Loki or has a haggard edge scraped Thor's words?

Loki is not crazy yet. He can comprehend his brother's ache.

Frigga's mouth curves into a weak half smile. She pats Thor's shoulder tenderly. Her eyes dart away from her son's bruised, sore body, unable to take in the sight.

"You two should go and change into more presentable clothes for the feast." She says finally. Her smile brightens, albeit artificially, and Loki is shocked to discern the beginnings of hard lines upon her sweet face. When did she start aging so? "I must go and help prepare."

She heads for the door. Her hand grips the edge of the door, and she stops, as if stuck there. She takes a deep breath, draws herself up, and says, "I love you both."

Thor and Loki sit down in silence. The only sound that can be heard is Thor's labored breathing, as if he has had a lung pierced.

"Brother," Loki soothes. He moves nearer to Thor and perches on the seat. "Please. Speak to me." His hand moves to Thor's shoulder. Angrily, Thor shoves it away.

"I do not deserve your kindness, brother." Thor says sharply. Loki settles himself closer to Thor. He dares not put his hand back upon Thor's shoulder. Instead, he just stares at Thor, utterly bewildered.

"Of course you do." Loki answers, as though Thor has been completely ridiculous.

"I took five lives. Five, Loki." Thor protests. How peculiar; Loki has never before seen his brother so frail before this day. Loki does not mention how many lives he ended that day, a number far higher than Thor's. This time, there is no definite winner.

"To protect Asgard." Loki answers dutifully, budging up to Thor. He surveys Thor with muted eyes, both of them wary and worried.

"That does not change what I have done! They are dead, Loki, thanks to me." Thor, this time, is able to keep himself from weeping. Instead, he channels fury.

"Listen to me, Thor. Close your lopsided, moronic mouth." Loki commands Thor. It gets his attention; Thor's lopsided, moronic mouth snaps shut. At least something is working. "Yes, today you killed five men. Five men that sought to destroy us, our family, and our home. Without your action, many of our friends, our family, our people could have been slaughtered. What you did was not wrong. It may not have been entirely right, either, Thor. You know that, brother, you know that very well." Thor's eyebrows quirk and he cocks his head, unable to decide if he is livid or saddened.

"And that is what makes you good, Thor. You recognize this. Grieve for them. Cry for them. Remember them. Mourning does not make you pathetic; in fact, to the contrary. It is what will make you such a magnificent king. Do not lose your empathy. It is a quality that many men do not have." Loki finishes. His hand touches Thor's shoulder, and this time, Thor does not thrust it away. Loki is not sure if he believes his own speech or not. The only thing that matters is that Thor **does**.

"When I am king," Thor murmurs. "I will never let you leave my side. You are wise, brother. And I will need someone like you. I will always need you with me."

Loki does not sully the moment with childish thoughts. He does not tell Thor the inevitable; one day, Thor will grow up and see the inferior creature with him, heaving his brother aside like everyone else. Hadn't the most wonderful, loyal, sagacious, **dear** king done that already? He wishes Thor would not make precarious promises poised to break.

Loki's mouth curves into a half moon grin.

"And I shall always be there." He promises, voice airy. "Now, we have a feast to attend."

"I shall see you there?" Thor beams.

"Of course." Loki answers.

"Thank you, brother." Thor murmurs. "Thank you for all you have done for me."

Loki cannot think of anything to say back, so he settles on a minute smile. They depart, and even in the dim hallways, Thor's grin outshines Loki's.

Thirty minutes later, freshly washed and clad in clean garments, Loki saunters to the dining hall. He passes the tapestries- Odin fighting Frost Giants, The World Tree, Odin battling countless enemies, the removal of Odin's eye, the Bifrost, Heimdall guarding Asgard- unseeing. Instead, all he can envision is Odin's broad grin, mouth forming the words, "My son Loki, my noble, brave, mighty son, honorable Loki, hero, illustrious and fearless warrior." He pictures his own tapestry, soon to be woven.

Loki greatly relishes the idea of glory, especially that soon to be bestowed upon him by Odin. Odin will hold Loki's arm up, proclaiming him to the world as a worthy son. Frigga, of course, will declare something about knowing it all along, about Odin's thick head, about how perfect Loki is- and always has been, dear Odin. Thor will tell everyone at the feast about his brother, Loki, the one who saved him from death. Loki, his brother, everyone, Loki is his brother, Loki, Loki, Loki! How proud Thor is to have such a sibling! How honored! Oh, how Sif and the Warriors Three shall bask in his glow, ever so incorrect in their preference to Thor, submissive. They will love him. They will **all **love him.

Loki expects many things, all of them good. Loki receives many things, none of them good. Anticipation does not aid him well, a lesson he will soon discover. But back to the story at hand; the befores of it all, yes, the befores.

Thor, already present, greets Loki with a massive hug. His arms squeeze tight, and Loki, while he likes it, feels as if his bones will crumble into a fine white powder. Thor ignores the jabbing points of Loki's ribs and holds onto his brother for dear life. In those seconds, Loki recognizes Thor's fear, his anguish, and his pressing worry of what is to come.

Thor finally pulls away and faintly whispers into Loki's ear, "Father shall be so proud of what you have done, brother." Loki's grin stretches from ear to ear, his lips pulled tight.

"I hope so." Loki answers.

"He will, Loki." Thor assures him. "Now, will you come and sit with me?" Loki nods and follows Thor contently. His moment of splendor is coming, his time to step into the sun. He will not melt. No, the brightness will draw him in and claim as Loki as its own.

Loki mingles with the crowd. Though he speaks calmly to the guests, his heart pounds and the flow of blood through his body sounds like a beating drum. They clap him on the shoulder, and go on to talk about Thor. Naturally. Even the incessant chatter about his breathtaking, brilliant, faultless brother does not bring Loki's mood down. He even smiles at Sif, who gives him an equally cheerful grin in return. For once, the two of them have a pleasant conversation.

"What was it like?" Sif inquires curiously.

"It went by very quickly, a rush." Loki explains, glad to have her attention. Volstagg and Hogun wander over, away from Thor who is silent and pensive, standing aloof. They eavesdrop raptly. "Of course, you will hear the whole story from both Thor and I later. Between you and me, it went over far too swiftly. It was as if things had been sped up and we were relying on nothing but keen instinct, Thor and I. Our nature, the more primitive side. It was quite invigorating."

"One day," Sif declares fiercely. "I shall prove myself a warrior as well." Loki smirks smugly. She responds with a twin sneer, not nasty, but jesting.

"Of course you will." Says Volstagg kindly in between a mouthful of food he has snuck inside. Who brings secret food to feast other than Volstagg? By now, they can all decipher his words without a thought. After so much practice, it comes effortlessly.

At that moment, servants enter the dining hall, plates of steaming food in hand. Volstagg follows the ham. Sif gives Loki a kind smile and leaves to her spot, trailed by Hogun, who pulls a reluctant Fandral away from a pretty brunette. Merrily, Loki takes his place next to Thor. Thor graces Loki with a smile and pats his brother on the back.

It is coming, Loki's turn in the sunlight. At last, at long last, hero Loki, mighty Loki, brave Loki, loyal Loki, cunning Loki, Loki son of Odin, shall be eminent. His grin widens, lips stretched out in a near painful manner. Odin clears his throat and Loki settles back into his seat, excited for the show to unfold.

"Today," Odin begins in a thunderous voice. "My sons have fought well. They have proved themselves to be mighty warriors. They defeated monstrous enemies and came back victorious. They have served Asgard well. None fought so bravely as my son-" Loki's smile glows brightly, and he starts to stand up next to his extolling father.

"None fought so bravely as my son, Thor!" Odin declares proudly. Frigga blanches and clutches her glass. Her eyes fill with rage, but she simmers wordlessly. Odin's hand wraps around Thor's. He holds Thor's arm up. Loki falls back into his seat, boneless."When his brother was pinned down, Thor burst in and with cunning, distracted the warriors. He threw his weapons, striking them dead in an instant. Though he was far outnumbered, he rushed to his brother's aid." At this point, Loki's face turns a sickly shade of green. Odin stares ahead to the crowd, surveying his people, but Thor's eyes are locked onto Loki's. Fearfully, Thor gazes at his brother, unsure of what is going on. In that moment, Loki is disappointed to find that he cannot loathe Thor. He musters the ire, and falls flat. Thor's eyes implore Loki to stand up and stop the madness, to claim his right.

Uncertainty floods Thor's face. Loki can see the levers and pulleys in his head, the mechanics that illustrate Thor's disinclination to accept Loki's praise. Something stops Loki from screeching out the truth. Besides, would Odin even believe him? With Thor's battered face, he looks every bit the warrior; and Loki, clean, untarnished Loki, looks every bit the malfunction of a son, a weakling trapped in battle. He blocks out Odin's words, which sting him like poisoned barbs. They love Thor. They **all **love Thor.

Thor does not tear his eyes away from Loki. His mouth hangs slack jawed. Loki just nods his head and smiles, lets Thor win. Thor always triumphs, a fact of life. Let him have this. He loves Thor far too much to embarrass him in such a manner, to describe Thor's faltering, his ill demeanor, his despair. Loki relinquishes his hold on the past. If Loki had known what days would follow, he would have claimed the victory for himself.


	4. Cogs

Let me clarify: I am not a perpetual victim. It is not my intention to convey that message. I am not a faultless wretch. Do not think me sympathetic, brother. No, in my blinding hatred, I set this all into motion. If my mouth had remained shut forever, well, perhaps I'd be at the side of the newly crowned King of Asgard.

I am glad, in an anomalous way, that I departed. Bitter, yes, but no matter what, I'll always be bitter. And oh, I sound so crisp and clear, as if I have not rehearsed this speech so many times before. The earlier drafts were saturated by the incontestable scent of madness. Here, at least, I reserve the right to edit myself. When talking with you, I hardly have the luxury.

Do not think that I forgive you.

Do not ever even begin to believe it.

Exoneration from my lips will always ring false. I was never like you, granting pardon to even the most grievous of aggressors- to people like me. We differ greatly, Thor, far more than you ever discerned. You ascribe to me sense of humanity, the same thing you possess. And once more, I must reiterate, we are not the same. We have never been the same.

It may suit you to simplify the issues. But know this: our rivalry is not about light, not about darkness, not about Odin nor Asgard; it's about us. Distribution of brightness pays no part. Do no romanticize this. We are not two separate halves of a fractured whole, the clashing hued sides that have come to blows since the beginning. No, this will always be about **us**.

I transmogrified to fit into your silhouette. I considered you noble, and so I, too, became noble. For a while, I tricked myself into believe all was well, that I was satiated. I was first your little brother, not this deviant caricature of Loki. Then, I saw your savagery in Jotunheim, and I, too, became savage. I am a shifter, a trickster, the smith of lies, after all. Why not alter myself to become the one I idolized? And then you came back as the same being I had always held you up as, noble, and Thor, I was no longer noble.

I became you, became all the darker facets, and found myself comforted in murky corners. The absence of sun soothed me. After all, men like me, we burn so easily.

You have probably noticed that I skipped over my own grievous role. That is, you would have noticed had I ever intended to jot down my mess of a letter. I can't explain everything away; why even try?

Even now, I can see you cringing at my words. I'm sure you would implore me to 'see reason'. By that, of course, you mean **your** reasons. You would plead for me to stop and fall into your arms, complacent. To that I say: I will spite whomever I please. Do not conquer my head from afar.

But, Loki, you would rationalize, - I can see the cogs whirring inside your thick head-you had more freedom than I. No one watched you as they did me; none expected such a great deal or placed a heavier burden.

And that, once again, is where you err. They expected one thing of me, Thor. One thing. They expected me to be you. When they saw what a wretched failure I was, well, they stopped expecting anything but disappointment.

I wanted you to grow up and cast away the childish articles weighing you down. Grow up you did, tossing me aside, a mere plaything, with them.

Oh, Thor, this letter sounds nothing like me. Far too kind, for one- the merits of practice. Something from you elicits a sharper cut from my tongue and a sweeter honey on the carved words. So many complaints, I know, but I must justify my actions somehow. My words emerge, ever so formal, so I won't sound deranged. Must I toss away this letter and begin anew?

No, I shall continue. Too many drafts have left me jumbled.

Ah, yes, playthings, the whims of spoiled children. We left off there, did we not?


	5. Bravado

Thor doesn't mind being in the center of attention; more than that, he revels in it. So when Fandral casually says something into Loki's ear and Loki responds with jagged retorts, it's safe to say that Thor is far too busy preening to notice. Whatever has gotten into Fandral and drawn icy words from his lips, Loki can't pinpoint. Perhaps he desires to catch the eye of a rather voluptuous brunette near Thor, perhaps he has consumed far too much ale, or perhaps he simply hankers for a fight. Really, the answer aids no one, so he doesn't contemplate any further. And still, Fandral speaks, unceasing, words progressively cruder and fiercer.

Loki steps back, aghast, eyes simmering with fury. Fandral quirks a blond eyebrow and waits for Loki's response. Loki's body coils tightly, cobra-like, and he prepares to strike once more. A shudder runs through him. His brain rattles inside his skull. Somehow, though, Loki reigns himself in; Thor remains in his sight, a statue of marble that he tries to imitate.

Focus, focus, focus, focus, focus on Thor he commands himself, focus and learn from his example. He draws himself up and, like a twisted mirror image, mimics Thor's strong posture, his broad grin, his unencumbered brow, his straight shoulders, his shining eyes, his swagger. Loki molds himself like clay, and though Thor sees nothing of it, Loki hopes to make his brother proud. He is still, silent, composed. Yes, he can bear it, he can bear it all. He wears his brother's manner like a suit of armor. No barbs can strike him there. It is interesting to play at being invulnerable.

"You have not even gone out to fight alone." Fandral sneers when Loki says nothing more. "You are too weak to prove yourself a warrior. Look at you, Prince of Asgard, lazy, indolent, and useless, more suited to sit upon a throne and watch as the real men fight for you." A hideous laugh burbles from Fandral's lips.

The sound causes Thor to snap his head away from a gaggle of girls. He pushes his way out of their hold and towards Loki. So angry is he that Thor doesn't even hear Loki's clever retort nor note the taken aback expression that covers Fandral's face.

"Real men?" scoffs Thor. His eyes fix dangerously upon Fandral, simmering. Loki needs not imitate the expression; already, his eyes radiate with a singularly perverse glimmer altogether. Loki places a hand on Thor's shoulder and attempts to draw his brother backwards, but to no avail. Thor remains stationary, unmovable. Though Loki has already put together the beginnings of a revenge plot- he knows Fandral's room is hardly guarded and picking locks is a skill Loki picked up long ago, such a thoughtlessly simple target left for Loki's clever fingers- Thor swiftly takes control. He motions to strike Fandral, but Loki interrupts, taking the initiative from his brother. Thor gracefully albeit reluctantly allows him.

"As I recall," Loki begins in detestation. Thor's lips turn up in a snarl and his teeth gleam, and for a moment, Loki feels as if he is staring at a far fiercer creature than his brother. Still, the abhorrence is not directed at him, so he lets Thor continue, a rabid attack dog ready to guard his brother. He enjoys being the object of Thor's fascination. Loki pauses at the sight, and then regains his composure. His smooth voice lowers, until only Fandral and Thor can hear. "You were the one who _pretended _to go on glorious adventures, who told lies of your journeys, who stole the stories of others and made them your own. I do not believe that is the mark of a- what did you say, oh yes- _real _man. It was my brother and I who saved you and helped you along a _real_ journey. Interesting how quickly you forgot."

"That was hardly a fair comparison." Fandral replies. "You had help- the sword, if I recall and your eager brother. You had an unjust advantage, and besides, never went up against anyone without your _dear_ brother to fight those battles for you."

"Thor never fought my-" Loki seethes, only to be interrupted by a loud smack. Thor's fist collides with Fandral's smug face, knocking him to the ground. The crowd once more hurries to Thor. A tiny girl squeals in horror and worriedly rushes to Fandral's side.

"Damn." Loki murmurs at the juxtaposition. He knows by now not to blame Thor; his brother cannot really help but to turn to violence. It is firmly rooted in his nature, alongside the need to defend Loki. Even then, Loki loves him. He desires not to, but the feeling envelops him. One day, perhaps, he can make his unlikely escape- though the thought strikes him as preposterous. Even then, he hardly wishes to depart from Thor's side.

A fuming Fandral pulls himself back up, fists drawn. He extends an arm, aiming for Thor's face, but Loki pulls his arm away. It hangs limp and ineffectual at Fandral's side.

"Enough!" Loki chastises. "Fighting like foolish, squabbling children- is that what you wish to do? Are we children?" The two briefly hang their heads at the scolding, but then whip them back up and exchange twin stares of hatred. None of them mention that they have barely left childhood behind; the answer would only shame them further. Judiciously, their mouths snap shut, wordless. Fandral brushes off his dirt covered hands. The girl steps backwards towards the crowd.

"Loki-" Thor protests, proceeding to be cut off by a shushing noise.

"No, brother." Loki states. Thor emits a palpable aura of rage, only to be silenced by Loki's expression; he raises a black eyebrow and his eyes dance with a mischievous fire that causes his lips to form a half moon smile. In anticipation of the revenge to come, Thor withdraws. He can always count on Loki to be on his side, no matter how subtle the way. And perhaps Loki's response would have placated the two of them, would have assertively concluded the problem altogether. The crowd has skittered away somewhere else, somewhere more interesting, each and everyone distracted by the promise of something greater.

"Look at you," Fandral laughs, all alone. "So passive; once more, my point has been proved by your actions- or, the lack thereof. Go ahead, hide behind Thor, Loki, you always hide behind him after all. If you're not too frightened to brawl without his assistance-"

"He's not! Loki is a valiant warrior!" Thor cries. Loki keeps himself from rolling his eyes. Fandral's fists no longer languish at his side and neither do Thor's. Again with the bravado. It tires Loki. Though he loves Thor, by now he understands that Thor will be the only one to defend him, and he does not wish to call his brother to task so often. Instead, he construes himself as detached, makes his expression bothered, and acts as if Thor's love is a burden. Soon enough, though, it will be.

"Yes, I suppose he is- after all, when proving himself a man, in his fear, he was trapped by the enemy and had to be saved by you. Truly, the qualities of a valiant warrior." Says Fandral haughtily. Loki's smile wilts, but he does not let his posture crumple. He makes himself resilient, unmovable, as if that will in turn prove him worthy of Thor's defense. Thor's face snaps back, as if the words have struck a blow. His eyes move to Loki, pleading, but Loki's head shakes almost imperceptibly. He will not bring shame upon Thor and let him reveal their painful secret. He lets the memory slice at him away from prying eyes. He feels ever so cold.

Fandral laughs, unaware of the blow his words have dealt; and though in that example he establishes himself as incorrect, Loki will not reveal the truth and hurt his brother further. He owes Thor that much. He loves him, truly loves him, and in that instant, he wishes he didn't, wishes he could cast the feeling and begin anew, airy and free. Love forges shackles around his ankles and stitches his lips shut, cursing him more than any measure of hatred ever could. And still, despite that, he cannot not keep himself from loving Thor. The infernal loop- that moronic cycle- spins and spins and spins. It reeks of infinity.

"As I began before," Fandral illuminates self righteously. "Meet me tonight at the arena, two hours before the dawn. If, of course, Loki has finally decided to leave you behind and fight for himself."

"I shall be there." Loki answers icily.

"We will see." Fandral replies cryptically, as if he doubts Loki's determination, as if, already, he expects Loki to falter before the beginning. He turns from them and saunters away, a disgustingly sweet perfume of hubris emanating behind him.

"I will be there, too, Loki." Thor vows fervently into his brother's ear. As if that is not the problem! Still, the urgency in Thor's voice soothes him, a soft silk that somehow cuts him deeper.

"I know." Loki replies quietly, far too faint for Thor to decipher. He follows his brother's path back home, trailing behind him like the most meager of shadows.


End file.
